The bus that picked up West Bromwich Albion's U18 squad from Düsseldorf Airport was anything but ordinary. It was a matte black behemoth, complete with tinted windows and leather seats that reclined almost flat.
"This is nice," Harvey whispered, adjusting his seat. "Leg room. Air conditioning. I could get used to this."
Ethan gazed out the window as the German autobahn zipped by. They were on their way to the Sportschule Kaiserau, a high-performance center frequently used by the German national teams.
"Don't get too comfortable," Gareth warned from the front, checking the itinerary. "We're here for ten days. Three games. Double training sessions in between. No phones after 9 PM. Nutrition is strictly monitored. If I find a Haribo wrapper, you'll be flying home in economy."
The bus fell silent.
For Ethan, this trip meant even more. Rick had texted him before takeoff: Adidas HQ is forty minutes away. A scout from the 'Next Gen' program will be at the Dortmund game. Wear the blackouts. Make them look good.
Day 3: WBA U18 vs. BORUSSIA DORTMUND U19
The pitch at the training center was pristine, looking more like a billiard table than a football field. The Dortmund players were already warming up. They appeared like machines—tall, blonde, and unnervingly synchronized in their passing drills.
"They play 'Gegenpressing'," Gareth told the squad in the changing room. "Heavy metal football. The moment you lose the ball, they will swarm you like wasps. If you take three touches, you're dead. If you panic, you're dead."
Ethan tightened the laces on his blackout boots. He glanced at Kofi. "Are you ready?" Ethan asked.
Kofi nodded, but he looked pale. "They look big. Are they definitely U19s?"
"They probably just eat a lot of bratwurst," Ethan replied dryly. "Just stick with me. We move it fast."
The whistle blew.
German youth football was a shock to the system. In England, the game was physical and quick. In Germany, it was strategic and immediate.
In the 5th minute, Ethan received a pass from his center-back. Before he could even settle the ball, two yellow shirts converged on him. One blocked the passing lane, while the other lunged for the ball.
Ethan tried to shield it—the "Red Plan" strength that had worked against Tamworth.
It didn't work. The Dortmund player didn't engage in a wrestling match; he simply poked the ball away with sharp precision. They countered. Boom. Boom. Shot.
Tyrell threw himself in front to block it.
"Faster!" Tyrell shouted, scrambling up. "Wake up!"
Ethan took a deep breath. Okay. No dwelling. Stay alert.
He adjusted. He stopped trying to hold the ball. He became a connector.
In the 25th minute, the ball came to him again. The wasps descended. Ethan didn't trap it. He made a first-time cushion pass around the corner to Kofi.
Kofi, finally finding space, turned and charged forward. The German press was broken.
"Yes!" Gareth shouted from the sideline.
The game turned into a high-speed chess match. West Brom might have been technically weaker, but physically, they were keeping up. Ethan and Kofi, the "Steel and Silk" duo, were starting to click. Ethan won the ball, and Kofi distributed it.
In the 60th minute, 0-0, the moment arrived.
West Brom won a corner. Dortmund cleared it, but the ball fell to Ethan thirty yards out.
Normally, he would recycle possession. But he remembered Rick's text. Make them look good.
He noticed the Dortmund line advancing to catch them offside. He saw Harvey making a diagonal run from deep, staying onside.
Ethan didn't chip it. He hit a driven, flat pass with the outside of his boot—a trivela. The ball swerved sharply away from the Dortmund center-back and spun into Harvey's path.
Harvey didn't even break stride. He took a touch and slotted it under the keeper.
1-0 West Brom.
Ethan didn't rush to Harvey. He jogged backward, checking his position, keeping his expression neutral. Professional.
They won 1-0. It was a clutch victory against one of the best academies in Europe.
As they walked off the pitch, sweaty and tired, a man in an Adidas tracksuit was waiting by the tunnel. He wasn't talking to Gareth. He was looking at Ethan's feet.
He nodded once at Ethan. Ethan nodded back. No words were exchanged, but the message was clear. Product tested. Product approved.
That night, the hotel room was quiet.
Ethan's roommate was Tyrell. The big midfielder was already asleep, snoring softly, wearing a recovery compression sleeve on his leg.
Ethan lay awake. It was 9:15 PM. He had hidden his phone under the pillow.
He opened Instagram.
The first post on his feed was from Callum.
It was a selfie. Callum, Mason, and Mia were sitting on a pebbled beach in Wales, bundled in raincoats and holding soggy chips. They were drenched, windswept, and laughing heartily.
Caption: British Summer Time. 10/10 would recommend drowning in rain. Missing @EthanMatthews (too famous for Wales).
Ethan stared at the picture.
He looked around his room. It was luxurious. It was clean. It was climate-controlled. On the desk sat his blackout boots, cleaned and stuffed with paper to maintain their shape. Next to them was a protein shake prepared by the team nutritionist.
He was in Germany, beating Dortmund, courting Adidas, and living the dream.
But looking at Callum's silly, happy face in the rain, Ethan felt a hollow ache in his chest that no victory could fill.
He started to type a comment. Looks freezing. Glad I missed it.
He deleted it. Too arrogant.
Wish I was there.
He deleted it. Too sentimental.
In the end, he just liked the photo.
He set the phone down and turned off the lamp. The darkness of the room felt heavy. He closed his eyes, visualizing the trivela pass, trying to replace the image of the rainy beach with the memory of the ball hitting the net.
It worked eventually. But as he drifted off to sleep, he realized that for the first time in his life, he felt lonely. And the frightening part was, he was getting good at it.